


it does matter, yes

by tempestshakes



Series: sweet birds, sad songs [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Poetry, shrug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestshakes/pseuds/tempestshakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl on surviving loss, remembrance, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it does matter, yes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a poetry kick. This is what I write during economics instead of sTudyING (oh god I'mma fail).

He stomps his feet on a fine line in the dust,  
invisible, an unspooled tragedy. Don't anybody else  
step on that line or a sickly broke-heart beast will  
leap out of the shadows.           Empty  
shadows.           Hollowed out. There used to be--  
things in there. Don't ask what.  
          Just things.  
Light things, sweet. Calm and terrible. Like the tall grasses  
on the clear cusp of a storm. Things made of steel,  
made of dripping honey, sticky  
joy. Stubborn. Good things, you know?  
          But don't ask.

 

When does the forgetting begin?

Does it start when the trail  
grows faint? He tracks carefully.

Does it come with a deed  
done badly? He avoids the heated tang  
of gunpowder.

Grips the handle of the knife strapped on his hip. Listens.  
_Shhh_.

 

He's not in the business of losing memory.  
Will remember the lashes she struck against his heart,  
welted and broken open like the scars on his back. Only, her marks,  
they were made of love,  
          like her,  
Girl made of love.  
How could he have doubted such a thing existed?  
How do you know unless you've been caught on it's warpath? Love  
like a tub of tap water. Tasting of minerals. Deep enough to submerge,  
but not get lost. Warm enough to soothe, yet not boil. Love that asks you to  
          live  
How quiet. How simple. How true and honest and wanted. Grasping.  
Love as a verb.

There is a Wood thrush perched on a bough. Listens.

                           Waits,

and still remembers. Sets sparks of chaos  
running rampant across his broad chest. Oh, the pain of knowing  
of _Things_.

 

Can't ever let himself forget.  
          Won't ever.  
                                               Nope.


End file.
